prosetry from my consistently relapsed one hundred words a day project
everything on my body is drying out and receding, but my hair still drips with grease. the outside reflects the inside. i have always had a mind like an oil slick: a product of mistakes of the modern world that poisons everyone who stops to admire how it plays with light. the first flakes of snow brush against my bare legs, taking flecks of skin down to the ground with them. i wish it would all come off at once so i could leave the husk in my hallway to warn explorers. turn back; you are headed toward the basilisk.